


Sugar daddy

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mycroft, Gen, Humour, Lollipop porn, sweet tooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock challenges Mycroft to give up sweets for Lent. The world is in danger.





	

Mycroft reached for the third biscuit to dunk it in his tea and eyed the scones hungrily. He was already excited about the comforting ritual of spreading clotted cream and jam on at least two scones. That one pound he had miraculously lost recently was a wonderful achievement and he deserved a reward. The last day of February was predictably dark and windy, the only good thing about it was that it was Pancake Tuesday. Mycroft salivated at the thought of all the pancakes he was going to eat. It was not gluttony, no, simply respecting the beautiful tradition.

The sudden noise startled him enough to drop the biscuit into the cup. 'Oh bugger,' he muttered. By the time he managed to remove it, it was so soggy it fell apart. Why, he lamented, why bad things happen to good biscuits?

Sherlock waltzed in, ridiculously pleased with himself, as always when he successfully broke into Mycroft's house. 'Good morning, oh, you're having _breakfast_.'

There, that was the moment when the younger was formulating a speech, genuine concern disguised as mockery. Mycroft had heard it all: diabetes, high blood pressure, stroke. It did not affect him in the slightest. He wasn't immortal and letting his appreciation of sugary treats kill him sounded better than dying of old age.

'Do you know what tomorrow is?' Sherlock asked unexpectedly.

'The first day of March,' Mycroft replied, wondering how it was connected to his alleged addiction.

'Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent.'`

'That's wonderful. I'm afraid I can't be bothered with it at all.'

'People give up smoking or alcohol or sex for forty days. I'm sure you would not be able to give up sweets.'

That was a challenge and Mycroft could not resist. Proving Sherlock wrong had always been a pleasure. Before he had time to think it over and realise how painful the sacrifice was going to be, he agreed. Only then did Sherlock specify what he meant by sweets. Apart from the obvious, the list included dried fruits, artificial sweeteners, honey, sweetened yoghurt and store-bought fruit juice. To add insult to injury, Sherlock collected all the forbidden foods from the kitchen. 'It will be easier without temptations,' he explained almost sympathetically while Mycroft glared at him, fists shaking in helpless anger.

 

Twenty-four hours later, Mycroft was determined to succeed. He began with a bowl of unsweetened porridge. After one spoonful, he was ready to call Sherlock and confess he was too weak to survive forty days sans sugar. What stopped him was the mental image of a defeated Sherlock on Easter Sunday.

Anthea was terrified and offered to smuggle a discreet amount of Love Hearts. Mycroft refused, puzzled by her frightened expression. Did she really expect him to lose his composure and terrorise the country? Laughable.

Lizzie Smallwood came into his office, armed with two packets of chocolate biscuits, either to bribe him or seduce him, it was so hard to tell. He politely declined the offering and explained the situation. Elizabeth muttered,' Oh dear' and slowly retreated, avoiding sudden movements and never looking away from Mycroft. He heard her advising Anthea to remove sharp objects from the office.

The news spread and Mycroft felt like a ticking time bomb. The uneasy glances, fearful voices wishing him a good day and people ducking in panic whenever he moved his hand, a complete madness. He was a responsible grown-up, self-restrained and strong. Lashing out at the innocent was absolutely against his morals.

 

Day two started just as badly. Mycroft cleverly decided to add unsweetened cocoa powder to his porridge, thinking it would be almost like chocolate. It was, like awful, unpalatable chocolate. He had been embittered already and did not need additional bitterness in his life.

Anthea carefully chose her words and kept her distance. Mycroft suspected she actually loved the tension and could not wait for him to start begging for wine gums, 'just one, please,' Oh, he was going to show her, and the whole world, how strong-willed he was. He focused on the documents on his desk, devoted a whole minute of his attention to them before he got distracted. He favourite fantasy returned and he closed his eyes, imagining he was a baker. Mmm, yes, carefully measured ingredients, the delightful aroma of spices and the meditative work of stirring the batter clockwise. And then, greedily devouring the still-hot biscuits like God intended.

 

By the end of the first week, Mycroft was frustrated, ravenous and full of rage. He hated all those who could eat what he couldn't. He hated Sherlock. They exchanged plenty of texts during that time, Mycroft asked if this or that was allowed.

_Bananas?_

_No. Try low-sugar fruits. Like olives._

Mycroft had never been so offended. Olives!

_I warn you._

_Rhubarb, then._

Rhubarb! That's uneatable without sugar!

_Cranberries, raspberries and kiwi. Good luck._

 

Cravings were worse when he was even a bit hungry. He had no choice, he was snacking all the time. Rice cakes, nuts, crisps. He chewed and chewed, hoping the savoury foods would start tasting sweet. Fortunately, he did not give up alcohol, fast food or cigarettes. Those three things would help him survive the remaining thirty-three days. Or so he thought. After a good, unhealthy, greasy meal, he wanted something sweet. A cigarette was always more enjoyable with a cup of sickly sweet, milky coffee. And his favourite alcoholic drink was not brandy, no. Sweet red wine, mmm, _dolce_. Now all of such small pleasures were impossible.

 

The second week was hard. Mycroft stared at those who dared to eat chocolate bars in his presence. Why did they do it so fast, without pausing to savour it? Didn't they know how fortunate they were to sink their teeth into the caramel and nougat filling? The phase of burning wrath and envy stopped long enough to consider arranging a rather unusual, private meeting with an unabashed sweet enthusiast. They would eat what was forbidden for Mycroft and he would watch. Anthea refused, at least that was what he thought. She laughed too hard to properly utter words. Elizabeth seemed willing but when Mycroft clarified it was not a sexual favour, she changed her mind. There was no other option than to hire an escort. They discussed details on the phone and it took a long moment to explain that he wanted her to literally suck a lollipop. More than one. Real, big, sticky lollipops and she had to provide them.

They met in a hotel room. Beatrice walked grinning, amused more than necessary. Mycroft forgave her because she was indeed very well-prepared. The brown paper bag she carried contained all that he desired. The first lollipop was the most impressive. Thin, round, red and bigger than her face. her teasingly slow licks and quiet sighs of pleasure were almost hypnotising. Mycroft licked his lips and swallowed hard.

'Is it good?'

'Yes. Strawberry-flavoured.'

'Sweet?'

'Yes. So many empty calories. I will not go to the gym afterwards.'

'Oh, you... you sugar slut.'

She kept a straight face and for that alone Mycroft was going to pay her extra. 'Next one,' he ordered.

A rainbow one, as big as Mycroft's hand. Her teeth clenched on the edge of the lollipop as if she wanted to bite a piece of it off. Mycroft shook his head. 'No, go slow. Lick it like you mean it.'

She flattened her tongue against the smooth surface and kept it still but moved the lollipop in tantalising circles, then traced the edge with the tip of her tongue.

'Good. Very good.'

The next one looked like a slice of orange. They spent the longest time with that one, Beatrice licked and sucked until she could fit into her mouth. Mycroft was mesmerised. Her breath smelled so sweet and she did not use her safeword.

Mycroft was puzzled by her next choice. A banana-shaped marshmallow lolly. He allowed small bites because she chewed them unhurriedly and clearly enjoyed herself. The last two were a red, heart-shaped one and a pink, candyfloss-flavoured one. It was so obscene, she licked them both at the same time, so greedily. The combination of pink and red was so appalling, but it stopped being annoying when she crammed both lollipops into her mouth. She was so full she couldn't talk, she just sucked and moaned.

When they were done, Beatrice kept her doubtlessly numerous comments to herself. Obviously, Mycroft felt compelled to see her again, to watch her eat ten different cheesecakes.

 

Despite his regular rendezvous with his sugar babe, he was still edgy most of the time. He could only tolerate Beatrice, anyone else was in danger. His usually thickly veiled insults and disdain were now so obvious that he gained quite a lot of enemies. He looked like he could kill a man with a dull knife and then stab him with his umbrella sword. He barked commands at frightened assistants and if he had ever been lenient with the overly complex criminals, now he stopped. While the UK had never been safer, Mycroft felt like a pariah. No one spoke to him unless absolutely necessary. Wherever he went, the corridors were suddenly deserted.

To his disbelief, his new attitude attracted the attention of a certain type of people. The submissive ones, they flocked around him, eager to please and actually encouraged him to take his anger out on them. Mycroft was about to use his old trick of pretending not to understand the painfully clear message, but he had to endure almost thirty more days and well, sex could be mind-numbing. No strings attached relationships with multiple partners were like a gift from God, considering Mycroft ruined his chances with his potential goldfish, Lizzie. Additionally, delivering a good spanking was oddly enjoyable, particularly when his umbrella was involved.

One of the younger distractions offered him a black cigarette. 'Chocolate-flavoured. Try, you may like it.'

Mycroft chuckled patronisingly, then promptly called Sherlock. Having received his blessing, Mycroft cautiously sniffed the black cigarette, it smelled nice. The smoke tasted vaguely like an old piece of chocolate. Well, better this than nothing.

Sherlock had a good laugh when later that day he visited Mycroft. 'Good God, Myc, you look like an angsty goth kid,' he cackled.

Mycroft blew a cloud of smoke out and pointed the cigarette at Sherlock threateningly. 'No. Stop. Think twice about what you are going to say.'

Sherlock immediately opened his mouth. Mycroft interrupted him,' Reconsider. I have no patience, none whatsoever. You may talk to me on Easter Sunday, but only if you bring me ten chocolate eggs. Until then, get out of my sight.'

 

The third week was a blur. Sex, post-shag fags and Beatrice. Spanking, handcuffs, flavoured lubricants, cigarettes as black as his soul, Beatrice eating dozens of macarons and all sorts of pastries. Oddly enough, Mycroft felt healthier, his trousers looser, skin clearer and teeth stronger. He had more energy to intimidate the peasants.

 

Half-way through the ordeal, he started losing his mind. Everything was a temptation. Lizzie Smallwood, tough cookie. Cookie. He could eat that cookie, eat it out or get eaten by it. Every time he came across the word _discrepancy_ he thought of crêpes. _Mince_ only meant mince pies, those homemade ones that used to be his biggest weakness. Scotland- shortbread, Chelsea- bun, Jaffa- cakes, Queen- of puddings. He needed to focus extra hard when a word _date_ was used because he pictured only the sticky, wrinkled brown fruit. Discussions about the currency were difficult as well, as Mycroft imagined biting into a giant pound cake.

 

The last fortnight was a nightmare. Chocolate fucking eggs everywhere. Mycroft was close to losing the last semblance of self-control. To let off steam, he began using swear words, a lot of them. Anthea was overjoyed. Elizabeth looked like her ears rang really loudly whenever Mycroft spoke to her. Probably hearing that she was a teasing little cunt did not please her. 'It's Lady Cunt to you, you swine,' she corrected him, rubbing her aching palm as Mycroft cupped his burning cheeks. His face was as red as velvet cake.

Anthea openly enjoyed his expletive-laden outbursts, though she was prepared to flee at any moment. Even Mycroft's closest person, his fridge, was not safe. Mycroft insulted her, 'What, no cake, you useless, ugly machine?' Her humming sounded forlorn and actually made him feel bad. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean that,' he assured her.

He fantasised about chocolate strawberry tarts, blueberry crumble, cinnamon muffins. Maltesers, bubble gum, cupcakes, orange tic tacs. Hot chocolate with whipped cream and hazelnut syrup. He even craved those unnecessarily small cake pops, he would eat two dozens of them and wash them down with two litres of cold, sweet tea, like a barbarian.

 

Around day thirty-five, Mycroft was a shadow of his former self. Elizabeth called him a fool and punished him by eating not one but two Daim bars at the same time, right in front of him. He asked her to do it slowly and she did the opposite. He hated loving it. John mentioned something about lower triglycerides levels and Mycroft was close to fulfilling his old fantasy of stabbing him with the umbrella.

Sherlock invited him to his flat for Easter Sunday. He and John wanted to make it special for the little Watson and they thought it would be better for Mycroft to have his first sweets in a safe and supporting environment. Mycroft accepted the invitation for reasons he didn't quite understand.

That day finally came. The orgy of chocolate and cakes. Mycroft cried on his way to the Baker Street, genuine tears of joy. Finally. He had enough of bland, sour, savoury, spicy and bitter foods. He wanted to bathe in chocolate mousse, swim in strawberry milkshake, bury himself underneath a tonne of fruit pastilles, jelly babies and gold bears. But first, he would spend five minutes in Sherlock's flat, to later turn into a cookie monster and not be disturbed.

John was downstairs helping Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was busy with Rosamund. Predictably, Mycroft took advantage of the situation and stuffed his mouth with a chocolate egg, without removing the wrapper. Heaven. Food orgasm. He shed more tears as he ate more eggs without a trace of remorse.

'Mycroft!' Sherlock was outraged. Rosamund stood next to him, her plump hand clutching Sherlock's calf for support. 'How could you?'

Mycroft was dimly aware of bits of chocolate on his lips and shiny wrapper sticking out of his mouth. 'More!' He roared.

Sherlock picked the child up and covered her eyes with his hand. 'Don't look, Rosie. Don't lose hope in humanity yet.'

Mycroft left only when all the chocolate eggs were just a memory. Rosamund had no idea what she had lost and beamed at the wild-eyed stranger. She was such a pure ray of sunshine. Mycroft took her half-empty juice box and drank while she watched.


End file.
